


The Flow of Time

by procrastinationfairy



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: another nico and will are patroclus and achilles au, but only nico and achilles appear in this fic (with a minor appearance from hades), but patrochilles is stated, i'm not even tagging relationships, this isn't much of a fic tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 03:22:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11981058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinationfairy/pseuds/procrastinationfairy
Summary: “You can call me Niccolò,” he says eagerly. He wants to be on good terms with you. He wants to be your friend. It stings to know that in spite of this innate desire of your souls to be together at all times, he still chose to separate from you.“Niccolò,” you pronounce, the words so different from his previous names. Patroclus, hard, clumsy. Lowell, softer, but heavy, sturdy. Niccolò is soft and light and wonderful. It flows off of your tongue so easily, leaving a bitterness in your mouth.





	The Flow of Time

**Author's Note:**

> This little piece, with possibly the laziest title I've ever chosen, is a bit of an AU I want to write but haven't gotten around to doing. It's basically my take on the Nico and Will as Patroclus and Achilles from TSOA, but I'm too shy to post this in that fandom, especially as the story is far more PJO than anything else. Since this was just an attempt to develop the idea, the piece itself is rather short. Even so, I wanted to post it here, in case I do get around to writing the fic itself. Hope you enjoy!

Elysium is paradise.

That's what mortals say. It's a consolation for the inevitability of death. If you're good, great, a hero, you may find your way to Elysium and live out your days in pleasure. This is vastly more pleasing than the thought of Asphodel, wandering aimlessly with no memories, no substance. No one tells you that Elysium is not much different. You remember, but none of that matters. Those who are with you in the moment are those you think of. Time passes so quickly. For you, your lover moves to get a drink during a feast, and when you realize he won't return, it's been years in mortal time. How were you to know your lover had gone to the Lethe, gone back to the mortal world without you?

You understand his abandonment. You don't like it, don't expect it, but you understand it. You thought things had gotten better since you'd both passed once more and returned to Elysium, but you should have known better. He'd once assured you that he would always stand by your side. He'd once assured you that he would always bring you back to yourself. You should have known when he looked at you and said he had no idea who you'd become--but you weren't his Achilles.

In any case, it's not even you who makes the connection. It's your lover--now just a small boy in the land of Italy, with a mother and a sister--conspicuously no father. A demigod. You wonder if he'd have been happy to know so long ago that one day he would blessed much like you--cursed much like you. You're not sure. He bears it better than you did, at the age of six. He understands his powers; he can control them. He's proud of his heritage, both his father and his native land.

This is why, at the age of six, the son of Hades calls the spirit of Achilles to the mortal world.

You haven’t been summoned in so long. You forgot what it was like. Your soul is ripped from Elysium, dragged through the earth in the most torturous manner, until you slowly dig up to the surface, where your caller awaits.

Your caller did not pour animal blood on the ground. He poured the glass of juice his mother had given him over the ground of her garden. (You tore up her garden coming to the surface. You want to apologize, but you’re far too stunned.) It’s a gesture few appreciate, but it shows a great care for the dead. He understands the dead better than most.

But once a ghost and presently a child of the Underworld, the boy knows the dead better than most.

He looks little like your lover did as a child. Your lover started off awkwardly. This boy has more divine features, symmetrical, beautiful. His eyes are dark, darker than your lover’s ever were--just a shade lighter than the depths of Tartarus, but with a glint that told of things horrific, a sight to see in a child’s eyes. His hair is the same deep brown, almost earthy black. His skin is sun-kissed and blessed with color. He’s a beautiful child, and you know who he is.

Does he know you? He knew your name to call you to the surface. If he knew your name, he must know your story. But that’s a singular. Does he know himself? You suppose that’s the real question. You long to know his truths--the truths of Patroclus. But Patroclus is presently locked away, in this child, this child who will grow into someone you won’t recognize. A child you won’t grow up beside, not like before, because this time Patroclus went alone. Why did he go alone?

“Are you the real Achilles?” he breathes, almost shy as he folds in on himself, big dark eyes peering up at you. You’re not sure how to respond. You never imagined this.

“I am,” you say finally. His eyes grow even wider.

“You’re my favorite hero,” he says, shifting a little. “Papà said I shouldn’t call you, but I wanted you to be the first I tried.”

You manage a smile. “I’m flattered, child.”

“You can call me Niccolò,” he says eagerly. He wants to be on good terms with you. He wants to be your friend. It stings to know that in spite of this innate desire of your souls to be together at all times, he still chose to separate from you.

“Niccolò,” you pronounce, the words so different from his previous names. Patroclus, hard, clumsy. Lowell, softer, but heavy, sturdy. Niccolò is soft and light and wonderful. It flows off of your tongue so easily, leaving a bitterness in your mouth.

Niccolò only smiles. “I want to be a hero like you, Mr. Achilles. Papà says I will be. But I don’t want to do that love stuff like you did."

You were beginning to smile at his innocent praise, but it immediately falls as you listen on. “My love means the world to me,” you say.

“You were saving the world! Doing good! Being a hero! And a girl interrupted that,” he exclaims. A girl. He has no clue. You wonder what perverted version of your story he’s heard. He’s far too young to know many details. He’s probably young enough to change details in his own head to make them make more sense. You shouldn’t correct him.

You want to. You want to speak more, get to know this Niccolò, but a door slams open, and out comes a man you’ve seen so rarely even since you entered the Underworld: Lord Hades. “Niccolò!” he calls sharply. Most would cower at that voice. Niccolò merely looks a little put out at being caught.

“You must return to the land of the dead. Goodbye, Mr. Achilles. Thank you,” he says, all pleasantries and formalities, as if this world is so perfectly natural to him. You let yourself dissolve back to Elysium, but you do not forget, do not lose focus. You next go to the Lethe, to join Niccolò, even if you must be so much younger.

Time flows differently in Elysium. Sixty years pass before you rejoin the living.


End file.
